Lucillus Nitrozian
33rd of Winter, 508 A.V.
The Temple of the Black Sun was one of Luc's favorite places to visit. It ranked high among his favorite locales in Ravok, coming very close to dethroning the Nitrozian estate and this mysterious, "House of the Immortal Pleasures" that he heard so much about.
It wasn't so much that Luc enjoyed sitting in on sermons and listening to clerics drone on and on about the glories of the city. He didn't. The preaching was boring, tiresome, and tended to repeat itself once one listened to enough of it. At this point, Lucillus was pretty sure that he could repeat one of the drab priestly sermons off the top of his head without any mistakes in the wording, so bored in had the message become. It was all just so asinine; why was the spreading of Rhysol's word necessary in Ravok, of all places, the one true city in Mizahar that knew full well his glories and would champion his cause from this day until a second Valterrian? Why did the citizens of Ravok need to be constantly reminded of their god's infinite wisdom? Luc could scarcely imagine the sort of non-believer that could live in a city like Ravok and still defy Rhysol's faith, and what kind of stupidity that level of ignorance was caused by. But more than the boring sermons, the young Nitrozian hated the fact that his family forced him to go year after year, month after month, due to the good reputation that it brought them to be seen in such public, respectful settings. Is my family so desperate for approval from Rhysol that they feel the need to attend his temple just to show off? Why don't they go about and actually do, I don't know, actual betraying and enact some real chaos?
It wasn't worship that drew Luc to the temple, but rather admiration. At 14, the young man considered himself an appreciator of beauty, and the Temple of the Black Sun was most assuredly beautiful in the most grandiose sense possible. Its size was overpowering, its elegant design jaw-dropping, and its immense halls sucked the unwary in like moths to a flame. It was a building that demanded awe and respect by its very nature, and one was helpless to resist feeling that they owed loyalty to the creator of such a towering structure. This was the type of place that Luc would love to become master of, to place a hand possessively on and call his own. If I could, one day, build a temple like this dedicated to myself, with great statues of me adorning the front walkway and a thousand murals devoted to my exploits lining the walls of the corridors... my life would be complete. In the young man's mind, this was one of the reasons Rhysol demanded respect, not because he was "all-knowing", "wise" and "paternal." Anyone that can convince mortals - stupid, selfish, lazy mortals - to create a monument like this knows how to manipulate people. Anyone that can do that, deserves my fealty. Perhaps his favorite part about the Temple was the fact that when the central chamber was almost empty, you could stand at one wall and whisper out your name, and it would sound as if a thousand similar voices were echoing back at you from every part of the hall at once.
The Temple was almost in such quiet conditions now... almost, but not quite. Many devotees of Rhysol still flocked to the central altar and offered their final blessings for the evening, immensely touched by the earlier sermon the Voice had delivered. And Luc could hardly blame them; he grew bored whenever a dry cleric took the central stage and delivered thanks unto Rhysol, but his interest was immediately piqued when one of the druvin - and, of course, the glorious Voice - took control of the day's worship. Even two bells after she had finished up her special mass and departed for parts unknown, Luc was still turning her words over and over in his head, biting down on his lip and wondering if he was doing enough to let his god into his soul. Maybe I should return to praying for him every evening. Otherwise, I may not be communicating with him frequently enough. In order to better entertain these thoughts, and give himself some quiet space from the rest of his family, the young man took to traversing the outer perimeter of the central chamber, walking quietly beside the walls. His eyes were trained on the various murals and portraits that he walked past depicting Rhysol in his full glory, his hands crossed behind his back and his mind wandering and wandering further still. I wonder... does Rhysol watch after us each individually, or is it only men and women that have proven themselves that are deserving of his attention? I hope it's the second. That way, when I finally get recognized in his eyes, I'll know that I've accomplished something.
Lucillus had come to the Temple along with the rest of the Nitrozian brood, but the majority of them had excused themselves from the central chamber and filtered into the other government buildings that lay clustered next to the Temple, surely conspiring to do some high-level business with the more powerful figures of Ravok. It was only him and his second cousin twice removed in the central chamber now, and she was staring dumbly at the central altar as if it were about to come alive at any second, so she didn't prove to be very interesting company. Luc, while circling around the central chamber, eventually stopped at a particular piece of artwork on the wall and stared at it intently. It depicted, in all of his flaming glory, Rhysol peering down over a field of hanged men, who were killing themselves at the mere sight of this wrathful, infinitely powerful god. The caption underneath the art said, AND THE UNWORTHY WEEPED UPON LOOKING AT HIS GRACE. Whistling to himself, the boy reached out and placed two fingers tenderly upon the portrait, resting just atop Rhysol's robed head. He was half hoping for the painting to burst into ash and transform into a winged snake that would devour him whole, but instead he just ended up scratching his fingertip against the charcoal art. "Petch," he whispered, backing away from the piece. If only it were that easy to summon a god to me...
The Temple of the Black Sun was one of Luc's favorite places to visit. It ranked high among his favorite locales in Ravok, coming very close to dethroning the Nitrozian estate and this mysterious, "House of the Immortal Pleasures" that he heard so much about.
It wasn't so much that Luc enjoyed sitting in on sermons and listening to clerics drone on and on about the glories of the city. He didn't. The preaching was boring, tiresome, and tended to repeat itself once one listened to enough of it. At this point, Lucillus was pretty sure that he could repeat one of the drab priestly sermons off the top of his head without any mistakes in the wording, so bored in had the message become. It was all just so asinine; why was the spreading of Rhysol's word necessary in Ravok, of all places, the one true city in Mizahar that knew full well his glories and would champion his cause from this day until a second Valterrian? Why did the citizens of Ravok need to be constantly reminded of their god's infinite wisdom? Luc could scarcely imagine the sort of non-believer that could live in a city like Ravok and still defy Rhysol's faith, and what kind of stupidity that level of ignorance was caused by. But more than the boring sermons, the young Nitrozian hated the fact that his family forced him to go year after year, month after month, due to the good reputation that it brought them to be seen in such public, respectful settings. Is my family so desperate for approval from Rhysol that they feel the need to attend his temple just to show off? Why don't they go about and actually do, I don't know, actual betraying and enact some real chaos?
It wasn't worship that drew Luc to the temple, but rather admiration. At 14, the young man considered himself an appreciator of beauty, and the Temple of the Black Sun was most assuredly beautiful in the most grandiose sense possible. Its size was overpowering, its elegant design jaw-dropping, and its immense halls sucked the unwary in like moths to a flame. It was a building that demanded awe and respect by its very nature, and one was helpless to resist feeling that they owed loyalty to the creator of such a towering structure. This was the type of place that Luc would love to become master of, to place a hand possessively on and call his own. If I could, one day, build a temple like this dedicated to myself, with great statues of me adorning the front walkway and a thousand murals devoted to my exploits lining the walls of the corridors... my life would be complete. In the young man's mind, this was one of the reasons Rhysol demanded respect, not because he was "all-knowing", "wise" and "paternal." Anyone that can convince mortals - stupid, selfish, lazy mortals - to create a monument like this knows how to manipulate people. Anyone that can do that, deserves my fealty. Perhaps his favorite part about the Temple was the fact that when the central chamber was almost empty, you could stand at one wall and whisper out your name, and it would sound as if a thousand similar voices were echoing back at you from every part of the hall at once.
The Temple was almost in such quiet conditions now... almost, but not quite. Many devotees of Rhysol still flocked to the central altar and offered their final blessings for the evening, immensely touched by the earlier sermon the Voice had delivered. And Luc could hardly blame them; he grew bored whenever a dry cleric took the central stage and delivered thanks unto Rhysol, but his interest was immediately piqued when one of the druvin - and, of course, the glorious Voice - took control of the day's worship. Even two bells after she had finished up her special mass and departed for parts unknown, Luc was still turning her words over and over in his head, biting down on his lip and wondering if he was doing enough to let his god into his soul. Maybe I should return to praying for him every evening. Otherwise, I may not be communicating with him frequently enough. In order to better entertain these thoughts, and give himself some quiet space from the rest of his family, the young man took to traversing the outer perimeter of the central chamber, walking quietly beside the walls. His eyes were trained on the various murals and portraits that he walked past depicting Rhysol in his full glory, his hands crossed behind his back and his mind wandering and wandering further still. I wonder... does Rhysol watch after us each individually, or is it only men and women that have proven themselves that are deserving of his attention? I hope it's the second. That way, when I finally get recognized in his eyes, I'll know that I've accomplished something.
Lucillus had come to the Temple along with the rest of the Nitrozian brood, but the majority of them had excused themselves from the central chamber and filtered into the other government buildings that lay clustered next to the Temple, surely conspiring to do some high-level business with the more powerful figures of Ravok. It was only him and his second cousin twice removed in the central chamber now, and she was staring dumbly at the central altar as if it were about to come alive at any second, so she didn't prove to be very interesting company. Luc, while circling around the central chamber, eventually stopped at a particular piece of artwork on the wall and stared at it intently. It depicted, in all of his flaming glory, Rhysol peering down over a field of hanged men, who were killing themselves at the mere sight of this wrathful, infinitely powerful god. The caption underneath the art said, AND THE UNWORTHY WEEPED UPON LOOKING AT HIS GRACE. Whistling to himself, the boy reached out and placed two fingers tenderly upon the portrait, resting just atop Rhysol's robed head. He was half hoping for the painting to burst into ash and transform into a winged snake that would devour him whole, but instead he just ended up scratching his fingertip against the charcoal art. "Petch," he whispered, backing away from the piece. If only it were that easy to summon a god to me...
